


The Irritation of the Crown Prince

by A_Flock_of_Grackles



Category: Feng Yu Jiu Tian
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Bodyswap, Contest Entry, Dubious Consent, Fade to Black, Long Hair, M/M, Stripping, The Ravishing of the Crown Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 04:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Flock_of_Grackles/pseuds/A_Flock_of_Grackles
Summary: The hardest thing to get used to—well, the hardest thing next to the whole part about dying, waking up in another man’s body, finding himself in an archaic kingdom of which he was now the prince, having to endure the attentions of a certain sadistic royal regent with chronic personal boundary issues, et cetera, et cetera—was the hair.





	The Irritation of the Crown Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Back in 2013, SuBLime, the US licensor of the manhua, hosted a contest for fanfiction based on their properties. This was my entry to the contest, which is why the fic uses their translation of all the character names.

The hardest thing to get used to—well, the hardest thing next to the whole part about dying, waking up in another man’s body, finding himself in an archaic kingdom of which he was now the prince, having to endure the attentions of a certain sadistic royal regent with chronic personal boundary issues, et cetera, et cetera—was the _hair_. 

Feng Ming had lived out his whole normal, ordinary, far-too-short life with a normal, ordinary, equally-short haircut. Some of his earliest memories were of his mother wrestling him onto a kitchen chair for a trim whenever she noticed the strands starting to curl over his ears. He’d cut his hair himself in the bathroom mirror these last few years—sure, his first few attempts had been disastrous, but he was a just a poor student and it was way cheaper than going to a salon or something.

This body, the prince’s body, looked as though nobody had ever even waved a pair of scissors at it. The prince’s hair was thick and flowing, the sort of hair he might call “tresses of raven and ebony” or “tendrils of midnight” if he were inclined toward purple prose, and was as shiny as the most pampered model’s in a shampoo commercial. It was ridiculously long too, falling in a smooth curtain straight past his hips.

And Feng Ming _hated_ it. He’d only been in this body for a few weeks, and already he’d lost count of the number of times he’d accidentally sat on his hair, or gotten it caught on something in his quarters. He seemed to leave long black strands everywhere he went (it was always _so_ much fun finding them in his food). It was heavy too, especially when wet, and it took forever to wash, and to dry, and to brush. If the prince hadn’t kept Qiulan and his other attendants around to comb scented oils into it and to keep it pretty, Feng Ming was sure it would be a birdnest-like mess of split ends by now.

About the only time Feng Ming’s stupid new hair was worth it was when Ren Ting took him riding on White Cloud. During those times, the prince’s locks would catch the wind and stream behind Feng Ming like the horse’s own mane and tail as they galloped over hill and dale. It was only when White Cloud’s hooves would begin to clatter over the flagstones of the palace courtyard again and Ren Ting would grab a fistful of Feng Ming’s hair to pull him back and whisper terrible, horrible, _filthy_ things in his ear that Feng Ming would remember that yeah, his life sucked now.

_I should just cut it off_ , Feng Ming thought to himself.

Half-submerged as he was in the private royal bath, Feng Ming didn’t think his new hair looked cool at all. With the way it fanned out around him, it sorta resembled some kind of seaweed or the gauzy feeding tentacles of a deepwater invertebrate. He lifted a hank of it above the surface of the bath and watched as water dribbled from the dangling end. 

_Ugh, gross._

Perhaps if he cut it off he could set a new fashion trend. Royalty was supposed to have done that all the time in the old days, right? While he was at it, maybe he could do something about the all the annoying layers and heavy robes he had to normally wear as well.

Feng Ming closed his eyes and raised a hand to his bare chest, imagining the feel of plain cotton against his skin. Ah, what he wouldn’t do for a few simple shirts. Maybe a pair of shorts, too. The servants had mentioned that the summers were hot in Xilei, and it wasn’t like air conditioning had been invented here yet. His lips quirked as he imagined the kingdom’s ministers dressed in modern fashion like the old men he had known back home, or like some of his more scatterbrained college professors. Hiked, high-waisted trousers, loudly-patterned short sleeve shirts, maybe a sweater tied around their necks—heh.

Ren Ting, though, _Ren Ting_ —Feng Ming just couldn’t imagine him wearing anything less than a full designer suit, even if it were hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk. The suit would be sharp, angular, with a silk tie that matched Ren Ting’s piercing eyes. A gray suit, probably, one expertly tailored to show off the lines of his shoulders, his legs, his—

“I do hope that it is I whom occupies your thoughts as you touch yourself thus _, your Highness_. If not, I think I shall be very much put out.”

Feng Ming gasped in surprise, the hand on his chest (which had inexplicably wandered over one pert nipple) dropping back into the bath with a splash.

“Ren Ting! I—No, no, I wasn’t! Why the hell would I—“

“Liar.” In two swift strides Ren Ting had crossed the tiled floor to the edge of the bath. His fingers dug cruelly into Feng Ming’s jaw as he tilted the younger man’s face towards himself. “As always, your visage betrays you. You wear your feelings written across your very skin. ‘Tis quite refreshing after dealing with the serpents and spiders at court all day, I must say.”

As Ren Ting moved to close the distance between the lips, Feng Ming broke away. He pushed himself out to the center of the bath, dipping low into the water so as little as possible of his body could be seen. “Th-the court! Yes, the court!” he spluttered. “Didn’t you say you were going to be stuck in meetings all day? Don’t you have someone you need to discuss, I dunno, trade agreements or extradition treaties or something with?”

“Oh?” Ren Ting gave him a dry look. “You doubt my ability to conduct the kingdom’s business in an efficient manner? Your lack of confidence wounds me, my prince. Or, perhaps it just irritates me.” To Feng Ming’s horror, Ren Ting began pulling his outermost mantle from his shoulders. The sound of the garment hitting the floor was like the sound of Feng Ming’s doom.

Feng Ming shook his head empathetically as he frantically tried to think of an escape route. “No, nothing like that! You always seem really good at your job. I mean, you wouldn’t have been picked to be regent if you weren’t good at your job. You always are really confident and commanding at meetings and…. “

His voice died as he saw the raised eyebrow Ren Ting was directing at him. Feng Ming realized he had just complimented the man. That didn’t happen often.

“….And I wasn’t thinking of you. Really,” he finished lamely.

Ren Ting’s long, elegant fingers were working the knot of his sash now. “Is that so?” the regent asked, a dangerous note creeping into his tone. “So you were thinking of another man, then.”

“No, no, no! I swear, there isn’t anyone here but you that I could ever—“ 

Remembering Ren Ting’s uncanny ability to sniff out lies—lies and truths—Feng Ming decided to stop his flood of denials before he got himself into deeper trouble. “I was just thinking of cutting my hair,” he muttered. “That’s what I was doing.”

“Cutting your hair?” Ren Ting seemed genuinely surprised. However, the older man’s hands still moved undeterred to the collar of his next layer of clothing as his untied sash fell away.

“Uh huh. It’s really long. And it gets in the way. I know it’s tradition to wear it long here, but change is good sometimes, right?”

“Some might say that the best features of a certain figurehead prince are his good looks. Such beauty invites the admiration of the common people, thus making it easier for those who truly hold the reins of power to rule. Considering how few other qualities you possess, your Highness, it might not be in your best interest to alter your appearance too much.”

“Are you calling me ugly?” Feng Ming demanded. _Are you calling the prince ugly?_

“Far from it,” Ren Ting answered with a smirk as his penultimate layer of clothing slipped down to pool on the tiles. Beneath it, the man only wore a thin, white under-robe. A _very_ thin under-robe, one which gapped open at the neck to show a wide expanse of Ren Ting’s firm chest.

Feng Ming swallowed.

With easy grace, Ren Ting stepped over the rim of the bath and began to smoothly wade across the still-warm water. Feng Ming scooted back towards the far edge of the tub, eyeing the advancing man nervously. Hunting tigers on nature documentaries never seemed as predatory as Ren Ting did at times like these. Still, though he knew the result was all but inevitable, Feng Ming’s pride demanded that this cornered deer not be devoured quietly.

“What does it matter what other people think?” he squawked as Ren Ting drew near. “It’s my body.” _The prince’s body._ “I should be able to cut my hair if I want to.”

“You’re perfectly right about that, your Highness.”

“I-I am?”

One of Ren Ting’s hands moved to rest possessively against Feng Ming’s naked hip while his other rose from the water to cup his cheek. The pads of Ren Ting’s fingers skimmed across the younger man’s smooth skin in a way that was almost gentle. “Of course. Why should it matter what the peasant rabble thinks of you? Why should it matter what those idiots who call themselves your ministers think of you? There is only one person in this world you ever need to please: _me_.”

Feng Ming’s eyes, which had fallen half shut beneath the older man’s soothing touch, snapped open. “You don’t own me,” he snapped at Ren Ting, his words laced with as much venom as he could muster. “You _don’t_.”

But Ren Ting only chuckled darkly, and pressed forward against Feng Ming until all that separated their heated, slick skin was a single thin layer of cloth. “I,” he breathed into Feng Ming’s ear in that deep, husky voice of his, “would beg to differ.”

Feng Ming shoved Ren Ting off himself as hard as he could. The man staggered back a step or two, the amusement on his face shifting abruptly into anger. A moment later, though, his lips twisted into a vicious smile that terrified Feng Ming more than his wrathful expression had.

“Well, well,” Ren Ting said. “So you are serious about this, my prince? Alright, have it your way, then.” He began to walk toward the stone steps that led from the pool.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Feng Ming called, splashing forward to catch him by the sleeve. It wasn’t like Ren Ting to let him go so easily. Whatever he was planning, it couldn’t be good.

Ren Ting turned, his eyebrows raised in feigned surprise. “Why, I’m merely summoning a servant to bring us a pair of scissors.”

“Scissors—?”

Realization suddenly dawned. “Wait, you mean that you’re going to cut— Here? Now?”

Ren Ting turned fully around, and began to advance on the younger man once again. Feng Ming took one step back. Then two. Then his bottom hit the far edge of the bath, and he had nowhere left to run.

“What’s the matter, your Highness” the regent almost purred. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No, not really. Not with anything sharp, at least” Feng Ming muttered, thinking back to welts and whip marks that had covered this body when he had first taken possession of it, every single one the courtesy of this man here.

“Such little faith you have,” Ren Ting said coolly, leaning forward to bracket Feng Ming with his arms. The white under-robe, now translucent from the bathwater, clung tightly to the aristocratic lines of the older man’s body. Feng Ming closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

For a dozen heartbeats, nothing happened. Feng Ming’s skin prickled in anticipation as he waited for the hammer to fall. Would Ren Ting strike him? Grab him? Would he—“

The touch was soft, soothing. A gentle hand at the back of his head, tenderly stroking through his hair. Warm breath blew against the side of his neck, followed by a brief caress of lips against his skin.

“Of course, your Highness, if you do go through your plan to divest yourself of your locks, there are some matters to consider.”

“Ah—!”

He could feel each of Ren Ting’s words vibrating deep in his chest. Sharp teeth grazed the shell of his left ear, and were followed by the hot wet swipe of a tongue.

“It is uncharacteristic for a man of the royal family to break with tradition in so dramatic a fashion. Your ministers would be quite concerned—perhaps a few would even begin to recall the legends about soul transfers. I would have to work quite vigorously to persuade them otherwise. Some I might be able to convince by crossing their palms with coin. Others…might need to be eliminated.”

Feng Ming’s eyes flew open. “N-no, I don’t want anyone to—“

“—And there is the question of what _I_ would get for my efforts. What kind of compensation would you offer _me_?”

“Compen—oh, oh!” Feng Ming gasped as Ren Ting bit and licked his way down the pale column of his throat. He knew from experience that he would have marks there come morning.

“With shorn hair, you would much resemble one of the common laborers of the city. That would be grand, wouldn’t it? I would dress you in rags, and you would have to keep a civil tongue in your head for once. It would be ‘yes, master’ this and ‘no, milord’ that. I’d make you _give_ yourself to me, and you would love every moment of it. Or, perhaps I would make you rue your every waking hour. It would all depend upon my whim.”

Feng Ming clutched at the sodden fabric at the shoulders of Ren Ting’s robe, but all the strength seemed to have left his limbs. “Wait, stop, Ren Ting!” he groaned, “I don’t—I won’t…”

“Do you have something you wish to say, my prince?” Ren Ting nipped once more at the edge of Feng Ming’s jaw before straightening to his full height. “Some jewel-bright drop of royal wisdom, perhaps? A suggestion for when I have you in my thrall?” He drew one arm around the younger man’s lower back and pulled their hips flush together.

Feng Ming turned his face away from the man looming above him. Every inch of his skin felt like it was on fire, but he couldn’t bear to let Ren Ting see how much he had affected him. “I’m not going to cut it” he mumbled.

“What’s that, your Highness? I couldn’t hear you.” The hand around Feng Ming’s hips tightened, the nails digging into his flesh.

“I said I’m not going to cut my hair!” Feng Ming shouted, finally raising his eyes to meet Ren Ting’s burning gaze. “It’s not worth it. No way. Not if I have to owe you anything.”

“Is that so? Well…” Ren Ting tilted his head ever so slightly to one side, a mocking smile playing over his lips.

That was all the warning Feng Ming received before Ren Ting seized a fistful of Feng Ming’s hated dark hair and pulled the younger man up and forward into a long, bruising kiss.

By the time Ren Ting released him, Feng Ming’s legs were shaking so hard he could barely stand. He could only gasp for breath and shiver has Ren Ting’s hand worked its way from behind his head and slipped slowly down across Feng Ming’s cheek, down over his swollen lips, down his kiss-marked throat. It finally came to a halt over the fever-hot skin of his bare chest.

“You,” Ren Ting said, a cat-that-got-the-cream smirk flickering across his face, “are so very amusing to manipulate—”

His hand slid inexorably lower.

“—my _dear_ little Feng Ming.”


End file.
